The Winding Path
by TheGrammarGremlin
Summary: Draco, and Severus have each played a part in Voldemort's demise, much to the shock and joy of the wizarding world. Harry's more than glad to share the lime-light, but will life ever be normal for the three heroes?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: As much as I'd like to claim otherwise, I don't own or make a profit from anything Harry Potter-related. I just like to have fun with them once in a while.

**Summary**: Harry takes down Voldemort at last, with Draco and Severus' help. This is currently a WIP and I have no clue where it's going. Eventual HP/DM, possible HP/SS. Maybe even HP/SS/DM! Oh my!

**A/N:** If you haven't read all seven HP books by now, then please be aware that I have and this story might contain spoilers. Future warnings: SLASH, though not graphic at first, and AU (because things aren't exactly canon), and EWE (because I **despise** Harry/Ginny pairings). All characters are of (wizarding) age. This wasn't meant to be a serious story at all, but it sort of got out of control. Read if you want, review if you wish. Unlike most authors, I don't rely on reviews to continue writing. ;)

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The sword of Gryffindor fell to the floor next to the head that had recently parted company with Nagini's body. Too grateful to think of anything else, Harry silently cast a Shield Charm between Neville and Voldemort. Who'd have thought such a bumbling boy like Neville could have destroyed the last Horcrux? But it had happened, whether Harry was expecting it or not and he wasn't the least bit sorry to see that honor going to someone besides himself for once. The death of Nagini seemed to fuel the fire for Voldemort and his followers. With a howl of rage, Voldemort commanded his troops onward. They charged forward en masse, flinging curses and hexes without pausing as they stampeded further into the castle. In the ensuing uproar, Harry, unnoticed under his Invisibility Cloak, was shuffled and bumped into the Great Hall.

The kitchen doors were flung wide as Harry raced past them and he rushed through the sudden surge of house-elves, darting and twisting his way forward between their tiny bodies. He surpassed the lot of them, narrowly avoiding the kitchen knives they swung over their bobble heads. He soon left them behind, the surprised shrieks of several slower unlucky Death Eaters echoing in the house-elves' wake.

Many of the Death Eaters were falling like flies, the floor of the Great Hall littered with their Stunned, hexed, or cursed bodies. In the middle of the fray, McGonagall, Kingsley, and Slughorn dueled Voldemort, their wands stabbing and piercing the air, their faces identical masks of grim determination. Voldemort swiped at the crackling ozone and knocked them down as, across the room, Bellatrix gurgled her last breath and fell. Molly Weasley, eyes burning with a ferocity Harry had never seen before, turned toward Voldemort just as he raised his wand.

But Harry had already lifted the wand in his own hand, shouting, "_Protego!", _and tore the Invisibility Cloak off himself. It fluttered to the floor, the whisper of fabric magnified in the shocked silence, while Voldemort's dark purple curse sizzled out against Harry's hasty Shield Charm.

"Harry!"

"He's alive!"

"Nobody try to help me," Harry said quietly to the room at large. Their shouts died down immediately. Just barely able to disguise his relief when he saw a solid black mass pressing its way toward him, he extended one hand and pointed directly behind Voldemort. "But maybe you can help, Severus Snape." The stunned crowd parted, confusing the darkest wizard of their time, who spun around and tripped over the hem of his own robe, into the waiting arms of Severus Snape.

As if he were lowering a lover, Snape gently forced his former master to his knees and cradled the scaly face between his long white fingers.

"I should have known, Severuss...Quite slippery, aren't you?"

Snape sneered down at his former master. "Potions instructor, remember, Riddle?" And he tilted his head slightly to the side, letting everyone close enough see the round red wounds on either side of his neck, the essences of murtlap and dittany still drying on his collar. "It's over, old man," he ground out, bending his head downward so that his hooked nose nearly brushed Voldemort's own snake-like nostrils. He didn't bother to lift his dark eyes when he spoke, but it was clear his next words were for Harry: "Too many have already helped you on this path to stop now, Mr. Potter, wouldn't you agree?"

With that, Harry stepped forward and stood at Voldemort's back, bending slightly to slide the dangling wand out of Voldemort's slack grip. He stepped back as Snape leaned his face down to peer into the crimson eyes of his enemy, pressed the tip of his wand against one scaly temple and, though he whispered, everyone heard the word that slipped like oil from his lips: "_Legilimens."_

Hermione and Ron moved as one, standing a few inches to Snape's left. They quietly collected each silver milky strand of Voldemort's memories into the glass phials that were Charmed never to break. As each one was stoppered and placed into Hermione's strange beaded purse, not a single person moved. This went on for nearly ten minutes and Harry simply stood still and watched over the bald dome of Voldemort's head while Snape systematically sifted through and removed the memories locked within it. After a while, several people shifted at the back of the crowd, too entranced to notice who was purposefully elbowing past them. When he noticed three white-blond heads moving quickly through the dense circle of people toward him, Harry moved back from Voldemort. Snape stood up, obsidian eyes hard and glittering triumphantly while Voldemort only whimpered and clutched his temples.

The three Malfoys finally pushed through the wall of people, stumbling as gracelessly as ballerinas into the clear space. Draco delicately peeled himself free of his mother's hawk-like grip on his forearm and moved to stand behind Harry. Harry nodded to Snape, who stood to the side next to Lucius and Narcissa. Voldemort's shoulders slumped, his face in his hands.

Draco wrapped his fingers around the hand that Harry had a wand clenched in. He settled his left hand on Harry's shoulder, stilling the twitch of the muscles there. As if in a dream, Harry watched their joined hands lifting the wand, pointing it like a gnarled, accusing finger at the back of Voldemort's head.

"Look at me, Tom," Harry said, sounding so much like Luna that he almost laughed aloud. Voldemort turned on his knees, red eyes wide for the first time with true confusion and this time, Harry did laugh. His laughter carried low and thick, muffling the words Draco seemed to sing into his ear, a strange and dark undercurrent to the beam of light that flashed from the end of his wand. Voldemort crumpled soundlessly to the floor, lifeless, but oddly peaceful.

Harry's laughter died at the broken frames of the windows, the gold and red fingers of dawn filtering it to silence. He felt the collectively drawn breath of those who surrounded him, a vacuum of quiet that was suddenly blown outward by sobs and cheers and bodies closing in around him. Harry turned to face Draco, their foreheads nearly cracking together as Molly squeezed them both into a hug that was nearly as bone-crunching as Hagrid's. Draco smirked and hugged Molly and Harry just as tightly, then backed away to disappear somewhere near the back of the swell of bodies.

It was finally over. Tom Marvolo Riddle was dead at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own anything Harry Potter related or make any profit from writing about it.

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Tom Riddle's funeral was a surprisingly small affair. Aside from the standard swarm of reporters, most of the wizarding population chose to celebrate closer to home with bonfires, parties, and fireworks. Harry, the Weasleys, and a few of the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix attended the ceremony, which was held, fittingly, beside the broken Gaunt house. Ironically, the same Ministry official who'd spoken at Dumbledore's funeral was waiting for them under the swishing boughs of a thin green tree, his flyaway hair swaying in the cooling breeze of dusk. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new temporary Minister for Magic, stood close by, the dying sunlight reflecting off his gold earring when he nodded his quiet greeting to them. Tom's body floated in the air next to him, suspended by a simple Hovering Charm.

There were quite a few pops and flashes from the reporters' flashbulbs when they arrived, which Harry ignored while the group approached the trio, Kingsley, the little Ministry official, and Tom's corpse. Even after seeing him defeated, it was still a little discomfiting to see Voldemort so close without reaching for a wand or ducking for cover. It occurred to Harry then that, even with magic and power, Voldemort was just as mortal as anyone else after all. He was reminded suddenly of a news story he'd heard through the window at Privet Drive about a man who had devoted his life to exercise and healthy living, but had then died in a hurricane while hanging onto a telephone pole to test his strength. In the long run, sit-ups, tofu, and Horcruxes could save neither man from his fate.

Harry sat between Ginny and Percy on one of the wobbly wooden chairs under the tree. A few seats down to his left, Harry could hear Mrs. Weasley sniffling into a handkerchief, Mr. Weasley's murmurs of comfort a low and steady mantra punctuated by the undulating drone of crickets. Her tears weren't _for _Voldemort, Harry knew, but _because _of him. Further down to his right, Hermione and Ron sat close together, their hands clasped tightly on Hermione's thigh. A knot twisted around his heart when Harry noticed how many seats were left open, spaces left for Weasleys and Order members who wouldn't be here or anywhere again.

He turned in his seat when the flashbulbs stuttered again, in time to see the Malfoys slip into the last empty row, keeping a respectful distance. Narcissa and Lucius stared straight ahead as they sat quietly, their arms crisscrossing behind Draco's narrow shoulders. The Malfoys were dressed in smart silver robes, which made it more obvious that Snape wasn't with them. Harry wondered briefly if they were even very close now that Voldemort was dead. As Snape was nowhere to be seen and Harry was sure at least Draco would know where his own godfather was, he raised a dark eyebrow questioningly at Draco, who seemed to get the message but shrugged and sat back, a mask of bored indifference tightening the lines around his eyes.

The new minister cleared his throat and stepped forward and Harry turned back around in his seat, frowning and folding his arms over his chest. Ginny huffed next to him as if she'd expected to hold hands with him, but Harry kept his sight focused on Shacklebolt and his hands to himself.

"Many of us from the first war," Kingsley began in his low, deep voice, "have dreamed of this day for a very long time. The long road to this-" his dark brown eyes flicked down to Voldemort's body and back up again- "has been strewn, sadly, with our losses." He paused, his eyes resting sorrowfully on Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "Our sons, our daughters, our fathers and mothers, and even our closest allies have fallen so that we could be here today." He met Harry's gaze and continued thoughtfully. "Though they are gone, their sacrifices won't be forgotten, nor will we forget the sacrifices made by those we once thought to be the enemy. It's taken too many years and too much suffering, but Tom Riddle's reign of darkness and murder is finally over." Shacklebolt nodded to the man with tufty hair and strode forward to sit in an empty seat next to Bill and Fleur.

The man from the Ministry simply nodded once and jabbed his wand at the lifeless form of Voldemort. _Crack! _The body disappeared in a downward puff of purple smoke, and a dark granite headstone jutted up from the earth next to the tree like a tooth cutting through gums. The little man dusted his black robes and nodded to them again before he strode away down a dirt road. With a small _pop, _he Disapparated.

"Well, that was a little anti-climatic," one of the reporters stated bracingly. Quite a few of them agreed loudly, and the rest of them wandered off with their cameras and Quick-Quotes Quills to get their stories to their bosses as quickly as possible.

Bill and Fleur were the first to leave. It didn't escape Harry's notice when they each laid a protective hand over Fleur's abdomen before they spun on the spot and Disapparated. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley drew their brood to them when Percy pulled an empty tuna tin from his pocket. Harry paused to join them; Lucius and Narcissa had Disapparated without notice and Draco was slowly making his way toward him.

"Come on, Harry," Ginny called, one finger hooked inside the rim of the dingy tin. Her brown eyes narrowed when she saw Draco, her chin tilting up defiantly. "Thirty seconds, Harry."

Without thinking, Harry jogged to Draco, grabbed his wrist, and ran him back to the Weasley group. Shoulder to shoulder, he placed their fingers on the bent-back lid, just in time to notice Mrs. Weasley's small sad smile, Ginny's furious glare, and Draco's mocking smirk. Before he could rethink his actions, the tin glowed a bright blue, an invisible hook behind his navel jerked him backward and they were on their way to the Burrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Yes, I own the Harry Potter Universe, mwahahaha! . Obviously, I'm lying. Hey, don't throw things! -runs away- (To those of you who are a bit slower than most, here's the _real _disclaimer: No, unfortunately, I neither own anything Harry Potter related, nor make any profit from writing this.)

**A/N: **In case I didn't mention it before, this story started as an accident. It's turned out to be a happy accident (so far) and it occurred to me that the first two chapters are depressingly short in comparison to this and the other chapters I plan to write. For the first time, I am turning to you, the readers, for your opinion: Should I turn the first two chapters into one, or leave them be? Please click the review button to submit your answer to me, which is conveniently located at the bottom of this page. :) Also, if anyone's noticed any glaring mistakes, feel free to send me a correction, in the form of a review. (Ah yes, I'm so cunning in my attempt to get reviews! Mwahahahaha!)

For one mercifully dark second, Harry thought he was still asleep. The funeral hadn't started yet and he was still napping in the room he and Ron were sharing, that was Hermione shaking his shoulder, and Ginny was yelling through the door for him to get up.

"Smooth move, Potter," an all too familiar voice drawled above him. His eyes snapped open and he grimaced at the semi-circle of Weasleys, silhouetted against the pale orange and bright blue horizon. Having faced Voldemort for the last seven years had instilled Harry with a reckless sort of courage and determination, but not being able to see the expressions of the Weasley clan left him feeling short of breath and shaky.

It had absolutely nothing to do with Draco's pale hair glinting like a halo around his pointy face as he leaned over Harry, or the smooth coolness of his hand on Harry's wrist as he roughly hauled him to his feet; and it most certainly couldn't have anything to do with the way those icy grey eyes burned a slow, deliberate trail from the tips of Harry's trainers to the top of his messy black hair.

Blushing furiously, Harry turned to face what he knew was the shape of Mrs. Weasley. The silhouettes shifted as Hermione nervously dusted the leg of her jeans and their darkness was broken by the new angle of the setting sun. Despite the illumination, Molly's face still revealed nothing, which shocked Harry greatly. Mrs. Weasley was nothing, if not an open book. She shared a knowing look with her husband and looked around at her brood importantly. "Dinner's on at eight o'clock, children."

And with that, the clan scattered into the protection of the Burrow. Ron was dragged away into the house, spluttering, by a tight-lipped Hermione, while George and Percy headed out for the gnome-infested gardens, no doubt testing one of their new joke spells on the simple potato-shaped creatures. Mrs. Weasley hummed on her way to the kitchen, and Mr. Weasley kept a firm grip on Ginny's elbow while he led her to the chicken coop, under the pretense of feeding the animals that hadn't been there in decades.

"Any particular reason for having dragged me here?"

"I was hoping we could have a chat, Malfoy," Harry stated bluntly.

"We're not exactly best mates, Potter, so don't go thinking I'll stand here all night and listen to your emotional reminiscing about all the great times we had in the 'old days'," Draco quipped, raising a single pale eyebrow.

Harry frowned at that and shook his head. "I know we're not chummy," he said clearly. "And I'm not planning on reliving the past seventy-two hours any time soon." He suppressed a shudder, but Draco didn't miss the tensing of his shoulders. When two people spent seven years in such an intense rivalry, nothing was new or hidden from the other any more.

"Well then, what do you want?" Draco leaned casually against the post of the gate to the yard, crossing his arms over his chest, one knee crooked so the flat of his foot could brace him against it. To Harry, this was a non-verbal sign that Draco might be willing to cooperate, but he knew from experience that it'd never be as easy as simply asking. He'd have to give as good as he hoped to get and even then he knew there was never a concrete guideline to follow in this trembling almost-truce they'd been sharing since that morning in the Great Hall. But subtlety was hardly Harry's forte, being a Gryffindor and all, so he chose to cut to the chase.

"Why wasn't Snape at the funeral today? In fact, where has he been for the last three days?" Harry preemptively lifted a hand to silence Draco's predictable reply when he saw the other boy's mouth open. "I already checked St. Mungo's, so don't bother lying to me."

Draco narrowed his eyes and breathed out loudly through his nose, a characteristic he'd unconsciously picked up from the Potions instructor in question. "How am I supposed to know? You think he tells me anything?" He lifted his chin and turned his face, pretending to scrutinize the shivering shrubs under the kitchen window.

He hadn't been counting on that. If he was honest with himself, he'd expected Draco to hedge around the answer, but eventually give it to him. But Harry knew from the angle of Draco's chin and the wrinkle between those now tightly-knit eyebrows that he wasn't being lied to. It was a little bit of a let-down, especially since he'd made an ass of himself in front of the Weasleys to get Draco here in the first place.

"Er... Care to stay for dinner then?"

Draco turned to look at Harry so quickly that his neck cricked. He was silent, his eyes scrutinizing Harry's face for so long that Harry shuffled from one foot to the other, suddenly nervous and not sure why. The calculating look left his face abruptly, his trademark smirk slanting his pink lips.

"How impolite, Potter," Draco sniffed, pretending to flick dust from the shoulder of his pristine silver robes. "You should have asked me a day in advance. It's only proper. What if I'd already had plans for this evening?"

Bemused, but unwilling to let Draco leave just yet, Harry ran a hand through his hair and huffed. "Well, have you got plans for dinner?"

Draco's mouth lifted slightly at the corners and he skewered Harry to the spot with half-lidded eyes. Though he had two inches tops on Harry, he suddenly seemed to tower over him. "Would it matter to you if I did?"

"Of course it would, I... I mean, if your parents or..." Harry felt the sting of a blush pinking his cheeks and he bit the inside of his mouth to shut himself up long enough to inhale and exhale loudly. Draco was obviously just trying to cover the raw edges of his nerves after an uncomfortable conversation. He knew it, having seen it happen a thousand times in the halls of Hogwarts, but he'd never been in the line of fire before. It was strangely comforting, like the lighted windows of the Burrow on the nights when he came here from the required two weeks of summer at the Dursleys', while still making him feel as suddenly unsure as he'd felt about his kiss with Cho. "Come off it, Malfoy, I know you haven't got any other plans tonight or you wouldn't still be here."

Draco chuckled quietly and shook his head. "Lead on, O Chosen One," he mocked, waving a hand in the general direction of the lop-sided house.

Snorting, Harry strode past him through the gate, effectively leading the way like a good Boy-Who-Lived. Only a week ago, it would never have happened, this purposely letting Draco have an unobstructed view of his back, but some tremulous strand of their mutual trust and understanding of one another seemed to have strengthened without either of them noticing how or when. Whether it was their entwined fingers or their combined magic when they'd snuffed out the life of the most evil wizard of the century, Harry couldn't tell. Lazily lifting his wand to dispel the Trip Jinx that Draco silently set on the stoop had Harry believing it had more to do with the years they spent trying to get a rise out of each other.

Harry opened the door and bent low, sweeping his hand inside for Draco to precede him into the house. As the blonde swept by imperiously, Harry was sure it was the latter reason and was more than happy to leave it at that.

Molly Weasley drew her wand in a spiral at the kitchen window and quickly went about getting dinner. Cutlery soared from an open drawer and settled in appropriate places at the long wooden table. With a coaxing wiggle from her wand over an already steaming copper kettle, the thick rabbit and cabbage stew set to simmering. As an afterthought, she flicked a silent spell at the pantry and several apples flew out and landed on the cutting board, coring and peeling themselves neatly. The plates and cups stacked themselves at the corner of the table just as Harry and Draco rounded the corner into the kitchen and she turned around from the sink as if they'd just caught her about to wash something.

"Harry, dear, would you and Draco mind setting the table for me?" Her hands fluttered like birds in the air, flicking aside their automatic "Yes, ma'am"s while she hurried to open the oven. Pretending to check the readiness of her pie crust, Molly stole a glance at the two boys silently situating plates and cups. Their hands never touched when they grabbed for the same dinnerware, their eyes met more than their words, and they moved around each other like the insides of a well-oiled clockwork mouse, even when the kitchen began to fill. While she sent pitchers of pumpkin juice and milk to the table and the kettle began filling their plates and the bread sliced itself onto their napkins, Molly couldn't help but feel like there really was something magical going on in her kitchen that had nothing to do with the wand in her hand.

Seeing no other seat available, Draco sat himself in the empty chair next to Harry's. There was a definite lull in the clatter of forks on the plates and he noticed several freckled faces flicking from his to Mrs. Weasley's. He didn't know what he'd done wrong and he grimaced when he realized that this must have been Fred's spot at the table.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, _he hissed at himself, rising from the chair with a grimace. But there was suddenly a rise in the conversation again and nobody was staring at him, except Mrs. Weasley. She only smiled a small sad smile and motioned with her own silverware for him to tuck in. Cheeks aflame, Draco stiffly resumed his seat, but couldn't bring himself to lift his fork for several long minutes.

"_As a dinner guest, a Malfoy must never presume to take a seat that is not his." _

"You don't want to waste good food around here, Malfoy," George said bracingly from across the table, cutting across Draco's recollection of the house-elf whose only job had been his education in 'proper' Wizarding etiquette. "Mum'll go mental and force-feed you anyway if you leave more than a sliver of carrot on your plate." Though he was joking, the smile didn't quite seem to reach his eyes. On his right, Hermione passed the stone butter bowl to George, who took it wordlessly and went back to minding his own plate.

Draco slowly exhaled the breath he never noticed he'd been holding and made an effort to lift the fork from his plate to his mouth at the correct intervals. He sipped from his cup of pumpkin juice as delicately as he'd ever sipped from a glass of wine, and patted his mouth so carefully with his napkin that not even a drop or crumb was seen on the white linen. As he caught sight of Ron, however, he realized that it might not have been necessary for him to be so formal and that, obviously, not all Wizarding families could afford to tutor their sons in manners.

Fortunately for Draco (and the rest of Ron's table-mates), dinner didn't last very long. When several chairs were scooted back and contented groans and thanks were issued from around the table, Mrs. Weasley waved her wand and sent their empty plates to the sink. George and Percy quietly excused themselves to the living room and Ron and Hermione volunteered to wash the dishes.

Harry sat back in his chair, his stomach protruding slightly, but he'd never complain. Next to him, Draco sat as rigidly as ever and Harry was hardly surprised. Draco wasn't one to let his guard down easily and being in a roomful of the very people who he'd once taunted and criticized at every turn was hardly a setting he'd be relaxed in any time soon.

"How can you do it?" Harry asked, leaning forward carefully so that he could rest his elbow on the table and prop his chin up, effectively shutting Ginny out of the conversation. He could feel her bristle next to him but he didn't really care at the moment. When her chair scraped across the wooden floor and she slammed the kitchen door behind her, Harry knew she'd gone out to the garden to blast gnomes from the shrubs. Who said she had to be the center of his attention all the time anyway?

Harry's irritation faded when Draco turned slightly in his seat to face him, though he knew Draco was making sure he could see the last two Weasleys at the table from at least the corners of his eyes. "How can I do what?"

"Remain in an upright position after one of Molly's meals, of course," Mr. Weasley chuckled from the head of the nearly empty table. The slightly balding man sighed and leaned back appreciatively, a satisfied smile on his face. Mrs. Weasley blushed and reached out to hold her husband's hand.

Draco stood and pushed his chair in, bowing his head ever so slightly in the matriarch's direction. "I thank you, Mrs. Weasley, for the wonderful dinner, and you, Mr. Weasley, for your hospitality even though I was an...unexpected guest."

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley traded a glance with each other before Molly answered, "Of course, dear, of course, we're pleased to have you."

Mr. Weasley stood up then, pushing his chair in and kissing his wife on the top of her ginger hair. "I'll be in the garden with Ginny," he explained. Mrs. Weasley nodded and stood up as well, dusting her apron.

Draco didn't know Harry had been standing next to him until he felt the other boy's firm fingertips curl just next to the crook of his elbow and he was too startled to hear what he was saying. He looked first at his own elbow, where the tips of Harry's fingers rested, then back up to his eyes. But Harry was looking past him and Draco, in a daze, turned to face Mrs. Weasley.

As if someone decided to turn the volume up too loudly in the kitchen, Draco heard every word she said and had to fight the sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

"Of course, Harry dear, Draco's more than welcome to share a room with you and Ron tonight! I'll just fire-call his mother..." And she hurried off to the fireplace, her plump face practically shining with joy.

Draco turned to gape at Harry, who was smiling smugly and leading him out of the kitchen. There was a splash from the sink as they left.

"What? I'm not sharing a room with that- -"

"Oh, for heaven's _sake_, Ronald, be quiet and dry this plate!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Honestly, if I owned anything Harry Potter-related, Harry would _never _have ended up with Ginny.

His hands shake so slightly that it's almost unnoticeable, but there's a definite tremble in the tips of those long fingers when they ghost over the smooth white expanse of exposed flesh laid before him. It's almost too much to bear, but he grits his teeth, shivering at the sheer _beauty _of it, and does exactly what any man like him would do- he kneels, whispering his fervent thanks to whatever gods led him here, and dives right in with his silver dagger.

It's rare, he assumes, since it's never happened before, bending reverently over this delicate creature the way he's doing now. In the past, he's only ever knelt to evil, pain, or ingredients. And it's controversial too, he realizes, lifting his eyes briefly at the slim, shining growth protruding from the creature's head. But he leans closer, beds to attend to this task with his whole self, and besides- when has Severus Snape ever cared about controversy?

He fills only three medium-sized glass flasks with the silver blood of the unicorn, then spells the rest of it back into the dead animal through the tiny jugular incision, then spells that shut too. No evidence, the way of the spy, as ever- as always, he supposes. A nearby bowtruckle cracks its twiggy fingers, the clicks and hisses of its extended family resonating throughout the small clearing, obviously displeased by this overly large bat-like intrusion on their feast. The beauty of the moment is over as the last flask is securely stoppered and Snape, knowing full well the workings of life and death, doesn't even bother to heal the little half-moon-shaped bite marks on the unicorn. Fate has already made its claim here, has let him benefit enormously, and that was that.

With what could possibly be the final ingredient tucked safely away into a pocket, Snape squares his shoulders, spins on his heel and simply strides away as quickly as possible. His departure is the cue the bowtruckles have been waiting for and the abrupt cacophony of a hundred hungry minute mouths convinces him not to look back. He's not even tempted to anyway, even though Hagrid would surely be flabbergasted at the missed opportunity to watch them feed. It's not a sight Snape wants to witness, even if it does mean he could finally have one over the half-giant.

As he exits the Forbidden Forest some forty minutes later, he finally allows himself a small triumphant smirk. It'll only take a month to finish the potion he's been working on for the past fifteen years. And then the _real _controversy would begin.

At least there are no nit-wit dunderhead Gryffindor clap-trap-running morons at Hogwarts to ruin his routine. Just another pleasant facet to his life sans the Dark Lord. He could almost truly smile at the Longbottom-free state of his empty classroom as he rushes through it to his personal laboratory, slamming the door shut with a flick of his wand over his shoulder. His fingers scrabble at the throat of his cloak, twisting the clasp out of its loops and letting the dark heavy material slide to the floor in his hurry. He heaves a large stone cauldron into the center of his work area and sets several blue-bell flames alight beneath it. Preheating, he thinks to himself. This could almost be like cooking dinner at home.

But as Snape feverishly lines up the first of the herbs, scales, and powdered phoenix beaks, he knows it's a stupid analogy. Sure, he needs to food to live, but he needs _this _to survive. Removing the flasks from his hip pocket, it hits him, the gravity of this moment. He gingerly sets them atop his work bench, several inches away from the other necessary items and exhales loudly.

As if in protest, the tingling that's been surrounding his left wrist for the better part of a week pulsates, thumping once. It's strong enough to make him wince and glance down at it with a fierce scowl. He hadn't asked for it and it irritated him to no end to be aware of the glowing bond mark. He'd hoped to have been somewhere else by now, brewing potions and doing research for his own benefit. Damn Potter for stealing away his second chance at freedom!

Yes, Severus Snape has had enough masters to last a lifetime. It was time to get down to business with a Bond-Blasting Potion.

**A/N: **Aw... I was hoping to have been able to share a teensy-weensy H/D moment with you guys, but nasty ol' Snape had to ruin it! He must be hesitant about all this and he's suspicious about where things are headed. Why so serious, Snape? Don't worry, guys. There's some decent H/D stuff coming up next! Back! Back, Snape! Down! Gaaah! -runs away-


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, make nothing, and only borrow with the intention of returning.

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Half-way up the first flight of rickety stairs, Draco jerked his elbow out of Harry's grasp. He shot a withering glance at the brunette, not even bothering to reign in the desire to roll his eyes at the other boy's stupid grin. To be honest, it wasn't the next twelve levels of the Burrow that had his heart pumping and a thin sheen of sweat beading on his upper lip. Not even the ludicrous reality of a Weasley fire-calling a Malfoy about a spur-of-the-moment sleep-over had his fingers trembling. It was the sudden stop at a seemingly innocuous door, the once white paint faded to a pale tan, the rusty door knob a crusty accusing finger pointed straight at the source of his discomfort. Draco stared at it blankly for a few seconds that felt like many lifetimes. He secretly wished that he could pinch his arm without being noticed, just to see if this were really happening. But Harry's firm twist-and-jiggle of the door handle was too normal to be the product of any of Draco's "Harry inviting me into his bedroom" fantasies.

The groan of the metal inner workings of the knob broke the spell. Without waiting to see if he'd follow, Harry opened the door and walked into the room, pointing his wand at the over-head lamp. Soft yellow light flooded the room, chasing the shadows into the corners. Draco pursed his lips and wiped his palms against his robe while he took in his surroundings. It was obvious that this was a boys only room: Two twin beds were pushed against opposite walls and were unmade; various sweets wrappers peeked out from under the desk that was lined with old _Prophet _papers, which were held down by two empty owl cages; three odd socks, a hideous maroon jumper, and a Gryffindor tie were thrown over the back of the chair in front of the desk; and a crack in the wall was only partially covered by a drooping poster of a curvaceous black-haired witch, who had given up blowing kisses, in favor of picking at the tiny tears near the edges.

"The toilet's through here," Harry stated needlessly, opening a cracked narrow door near the farthest corner. "You can have the shower first. Hang on..." He strode over to the bed that was clearly his and bent down to open his trunk, pulling out two pajama pants, one of which he tossed to Draco.

Draco held the offending garment at arm's length and groaned. "The Boy-Who-Lived wears pajamas with _pygmy puffs _on them?" Horrified and missing Harry's mumbled excuse ("Ginny got them for me last Christmas..."), he swished his wand at the garish pants, transforming the horribly fluffy creatures into dozens of little glittering Snitches. Satisfied with the effect, he strode past Harry to the bathroom, mentally wondering what horrors the tiny bathroom might hold.

Harry flopped backward onto his bed, the wind whooshing out of his lungs. He gulped loudly, glad for the muffled rush of water from behind the closed door. _Draco's staying the night with me_, he acknowledged with a giddy shiver. Of their own volition, his eyes drifted to the old door. Steam rolled out under the door like the dry ice fog, roiling in puffs before dissipating. _And he's naked right behind that door_. Despite the rising humidity, Harry's mouth went dry at the thought.

He blushed and covered his face with his hands, groaning at the thickening traitor in his trousers. He rested his hands on his chest, doing his best to breathe naturally. That was blown out of the water when one of his hands sneaked down to readjust his arousal and didn't come back up to join its partner. Harry glanced at the door and licked his lips nervously. Did he have enough time to bring himself off? _Do you have the balls? _He could hear Draco's sarcastic taunt in his mind and it sealed the deal.

With one eye on the door and one on his hand, he began to rub his palm over his jeans-clad erection. The warmth of his hand was nearly made void by the heat of his cock, and _that_ was very closely nothing compared the fire of delicious friction. The fingers of his left hand trembled over his right nipple, caressing the peaked nub through his shirt with tentative strokes. The contrast of light touches on his chest and the hard pressure of his palm against his erection nearly choked him. He could feel his eyes crossing and his breathing sped up. He pressed his lips together, breathing harshly through his nose to keep quiet, and he had to fight to keep his eyes from squeezing shut. But he gave up after a fraction of a second. The idea of Draco spending anything less than twenty minutes in the shower was almost absurd, but the thought of a dripping wet, towel-on-the-hips Draco catching him literally rubbing one out cut the action short. Harry came hard and quiet, nearly doubling over as lights exploded behind his eyelids.

The pounding in his ears finally subsided and he nearly jumped out of his bed when he heard the water being shut off in the bathroom. He fumbled for his wand and cast a silent _Evanesco _at his still-thrumming crotch_. _The abrupt coolness left him breathless, but that was mostly relief, Harry figured. He sighed in relief, the feeling returning slowly to his tingling toes, and he sat up on the edge of the bed, grabbing the forgotten pajama pants. He'd just finished folding them meticulously when the door to the bathroom was jerked open. Harry nearly fell back again, his recently sated libido hitting him at gale force, but there was nothing short of dropping an atomic bomb that could take his eyes off his over-night roommate at the moment.

Draco stood silently in the doorway, steam rolling outward around him and rising off his naked torso. He had the lightest pink tinge to his skin from the heat and two flat discs of a minimally darker shade indicated nipples. His eyes traveled down a conveniently provided trail of sparse golden hairs, down to the waistband of the stupid pajama bottoms. They were loose and low on his thin hips but Harry thought they were probably the sexiest thing Draco had ever worn. Harry licked his lips and looked back up. A cream-colored towel lay partially draped over the smooth curve of a shoulder, one end of it occupied by a hand that rubbed it against Draco's hair. Harry gulped when he caught the smirk on Draco's face, the heated darkness of those usually clear and cool grey orbs.

"Look all you like, Potter," Draco drawled, finally stepping through to lean casually against the desk. He continued to dry his hair, his smirk turning more mischievous as Harry kept staring. "Your mouth's open," he supplied, chuckling darkly as his enemy-turned-ally-turned-...what was this now?...- blushed furiously and practically scurried into the safety of the bathroom with a squeak. When the door slammed shut, Draco snorted to himself, taking up the recently vacated spot on Harry's bed. He laid back, stretching his lithe frame, and bumped his head on the headboard.

He scowled, rubbing his head and tossing the towel. Naturally, it landed to hang on the back of the chair in front of the desk. Draco sat up, sighing, and put his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. He'd only ever stayed over night with Blaise and that was just once when they were both eight years old. Blaise's parents knew the boys would be sneaking out into the back lawn to put up a tent and pretend to be camping. But even then, he'd at least been given a guest room. He wouldn't admit to being nervous at the prospect of his first sleep over in about nine years, but he couldn't argue with the tell-tale quiver of what Pansy called butterflies in his belly.

Draco looked around gloomily and wondered if the house would cave in if he tried charming the room a few feet outward. Surely that would help dispel some of his nerves. Sharing the same space wasn't such a big deal, if the space were a bit bigger than the current slightly-larger-than-a-walk-in-closet area he'd been tricked into staying in. How could two teen boys be expected to sleep in such close quarters? Harry and the Weasel probably had to take it turns to sleep in here. Draco shuddered at the image of an open-mouthed Ron Weasley sprawled on the opposite bed, complete with drool and obnoxiously loud snoring. Then Ron's half statement from the kitchen rang loudly in his ears and Draco jumped up, eyes wide. There would be _three _teen boys in here tonight! He looked from one bed to the other and barely avoided hyperventilating. _Two_ beds! Two beds for three boys! Was he...? Did Harry expect him to...?

Draco crossed the room and pounded on the bathroom door. "Potter! Open up!" A shuffle and another squeak answered him. Draco nearly saw red at the lack of cooperation and jiggled the doorknob. "Open this door _now_, Potter, or so help me!" He drew nothing but air when he instinctively reached for his wand. Damn it! His robes were still in the bathroom! "Damn it, Potter," he growled into the crackling veneer of the door. "I swear to god that I'll bust down this door." Draco heard the shower come on and grimaced. He jiggled the handle again and this time the door swung inward. He stumbled in, surprised, catching his balance with one hand on the sink. He opened his mouth to start his verbose undressing of one Harry Potter but stopped short. His mouth didn't close. Sleeping arrangements were wiped clean from his brain.

Harry was naked, his pale round arse in the air as he was caught bent at the tap of the tub to check the water's temperature. His face was bright red as he stared at Draco over his right shoulder. Slowly, Harry stood up without facing Draco, stepped into the shower and pulled the plastic rubber duck-themed curtain closed. Draco stood there, his mouth working like a fish out of water, when Harry poked his head around the curtain to take his turn at smirking.

"Your mouth's open, Malfoy."

**A/N**: Aw... I'm such a jerk...


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